My birthday is coming up soonish, so Tom and I decided to treat ourselves to a couple of days in Paris. We had some air miles and managed to get a special deal to go first class on Eurostar. They give you a meal on the train and we got the 8.01 from Waterloo so they gave us breakfast, the full works. Tom ate the chicken sausage. I didn't. In Paris we wandered around and Tom started feeling queasy. We had lunch, which he managed to eat, but by dinnertime he was confined to hotel room, turning progressively greener. So instead of lovely romantic French diner a deux with yummy sauces and a bottle of burgandy, I found myself on my own in the cafe across the street having a glorified toasted sandwich and a nice cup of camomile tea. Poor old Tom was extremely sick in the night and then spent most of yesterday asleep.
I spent half the morning trying to get our Eurostar tickets changed to go back earlier, but they wouldn't do it. I did manage to undertake a few nice Parisy activities - notably shoe-shopping and buying some unusual bits of Debussy and Saint-Saens in a music shop on the Left Bank that hasn't changed a jot in 25 years (probably longer). Also visited the Cite de la Musique,the site of the Paris Conservatoire and the Musee de la Musique, which I heartily recommend. They have a permanent collection of musical instruments, including the dinosaur-sized Octobass created by Vuillaume for Berlioz (the particular instrument that I was keen to see, however, turned out not to be on display...long story...watch this space....). Currently there is a fabulous exhibition about music and the Third Reich, with extracts of film of Furtwangler and Richard Strauss conducting and exhibits including a programme from 'Brundibar' in Terezin, as well as Schoenberg's certificate of reconversion to Judaism, signed by Marc Chagall. Very strongly recommended.
Short version of above - I adore Paris, even if I have to go around on my own, but this wasn't really how I'd hoped to spend the past two days! I shall be writing a strongly worded letter to Eurostar about their noxious chicken sausages.
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
Friday, November 26, 2004
Elgar blimey
We're learning a new piece: the Elgar violin sonata. It's a peculiar experience because I don't know very well how it's supposed to go. Mostly I learn pieces that I know by ear well enough to sing backwards (if I could sing at all). But this is different. The only recording I have is unsatisfactory - it must be because it left me completely cold and reluctant to learn the work, so I've not listened to it again. My friend Margaret Fingerhut persuaded me that I was missing something special, so Tom and I decided to take the plunge. Now, approaching the work purely from the inside, having cast aside preconceptions, I'm finding that it is one of the most emotionally devastating pieces I've ever had to tackle. Inside the apparently staunch frame, this is the sound of a soul falling to pieces.
The sonata inhabits the same world as the Piano Quintet, the Second Symphony, the concertos - works I adore, but, obviously, have never had the chance to be part of. It's always seemed to me that Elgar was the voice of his age, mourning the cataclysm of the First World War and the end of an era. But this music is so inward-looking that I think it has much more to do with Elgar as a personality - and one that is deeply tortured. I'm simply gobsmacked by the way he can take what seems about to be an innocuous, four-square melody and, instead of developing it, unravel it entirely with harmonies in free fall, or rhythms that give way abruptly to episodes that make time stand still. I know of nothing truly comparable, certainly not in the violin sonata repertoire. It's astounding, powerful and both frightening and humbling to play.
The sonata inhabits the same world as the Piano Quintet, the Second Symphony, the concertos - works I adore, but, obviously, have never had the chance to be part of. It's always seemed to me that Elgar was the voice of his age, mourning the cataclysm of the First World War and the end of an era. But this music is so inward-looking that I think it has much more to do with Elgar as a personality - and one that is deeply tortured. I'm simply gobsmacked by the way he can take what seems about to be an innocuous, four-square melody and, instead of developing it, unravel it entirely with harmonies in free fall, or rhythms that give way abruptly to episodes that make time stand still. I know of nothing truly comparable, certainly not in the violin sonata repertoire. It's astounding, powerful and both frightening and humbling to play.
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
Schools and scandals
First, here's my latest from the Indy, about Vivaldi, which was in the paper on Monday. Meant to put it up here earlier, but was up against some deadlines.
Now, to the title. I'm working on a piece for BBC Music Magazine's education issue comparing the merits of different types of schooling for budding musicians in Britain. I've talked to 5 musicians so far and am about to talk to another 2 or 3. So far, the following points have leapt out at me:
1. Nobody under the age of 35 has yet had a good word to say about music provision in UK state schools.
2. Most of the musicians who went to a conservatoire say that they regret not having gone to university.
3. Most of the musicians who went to university said it was very, very hard to combine academic work with enough practising.
4. Private education at a good school today costs an absolute fortune, even if you win a 'music scholarship'.
I'm reaching the conclusion that what counts is really only your personal fibre. If you've got the guts and the determination, it doesn't matter where you study. All these places are getting it wrong in their own sweet ways. Self-reliance is the only possible answer.
I am extremely glad that I don't have to go through any of that again.
Now, to the title. I'm working on a piece for BBC Music Magazine's education issue comparing the merits of different types of schooling for budding musicians in Britain. I've talked to 5 musicians so far and am about to talk to another 2 or 3. So far, the following points have leapt out at me:
1. Nobody under the age of 35 has yet had a good word to say about music provision in UK state schools.
2. Most of the musicians who went to a conservatoire say that they regret not having gone to university.
3. Most of the musicians who went to university said it was very, very hard to combine academic work with enough practising.
4. Private education at a good school today costs an absolute fortune, even if you win a 'music scholarship'.
I'm reaching the conclusion that what counts is really only your personal fibre. If you've got the guts and the determination, it doesn't matter where you study. All these places are getting it wrong in their own sweet ways. Self-reliance is the only possible answer.
I am extremely glad that I don't have to go through any of that again.
Sunday, November 21, 2004
The British Amateur 2: The Music Society
It's one of those funny things about Britain: the only thing you can take for granted when you go anywhere smallish to give a concert is that it will be cold. And that nobody will have thought to put heating on earlier in the day to warm the place up in time. Yesterday was one of the coldest days we've had in Britain this year. We turned up for Beloved Clara to find that in the school hall a bottle of champagne could have chilled itself to perfection unaided on the piano keyboard. Lucy and the actors were huddling backstage in the Geography Room, wearing their coats, when Tom and I arrived - and their initial, tentative inquiry 'Any chance of a cup of tea?' had been met with the bizarre response: 'NO.' (One did turn up, mysteriously, later on.)
Tom is his orchestra's health and safety representative: it's his job, when the LPO meets chilly conditions, to do something about it. Old habits die hard, so he turned the full force of which he is capable on the poor, unsuspecting person who was supposed to have dealt with this earlier but hadn't. It's not for nothing that they nickname our Tom "General Eisnerhower"... First they brought down several blowy heaters and put them near the piano, which was fine for 30 seconds until the fuse blew. And only then, somehow, somewhere, somebody was finally raised, I think through sheer terror of Tom, to flick the switch that put the heating on in the hall. By the interval, I was just about ready to remove my gloves - and I was only listening. I don't know how Lucy managed to move her fingers - but somehow she did, and, I'm glad to say, very beautifully indeed.
When Tom and I go anywhere to do a concert, we take the following kit with us:
2 lamps, one to sit on the piano, one for Tom's music stand
An extension lead
At least one adapter
A small blowy or two-bar heater
A thermos flask of coffee
Water
Bananas
Chocolate
I think we may need to add draught excluder and fingerless gloves to the list.
Over in the States, what is the comparable situation - if it is indeed comparable? Over in Germany, Norway, France, Lithuania, Holland, indeed everywhere where you, dear readers, may be, how do things match up? Is the mentality the same - nobody takes responsibility and f-ups occur at every intervening stage before things prove, as they always miraculously seem to, all right on the night? Here there seems to be a predominant sense that if you insist something is done properly, you are somehow not terribly British. I am not trying to malign amateur music-making itself, which is a fine and life-enhancing tradition. Amateurish organisation, however, stops only just short of sabotage - and is really rather silly.
Tom is his orchestra's health and safety representative: it's his job, when the LPO meets chilly conditions, to do something about it. Old habits die hard, so he turned the full force of which he is capable on the poor, unsuspecting person who was supposed to have dealt with this earlier but hadn't. It's not for nothing that they nickname our Tom "General Eisnerhower"... First they brought down several blowy heaters and put them near the piano, which was fine for 30 seconds until the fuse blew. And only then, somehow, somewhere, somebody was finally raised, I think through sheer terror of Tom, to flick the switch that put the heating on in the hall. By the interval, I was just about ready to remove my gloves - and I was only listening. I don't know how Lucy managed to move her fingers - but somehow she did, and, I'm glad to say, very beautifully indeed.
When Tom and I go anywhere to do a concert, we take the following kit with us:
2 lamps, one to sit on the piano, one for Tom's music stand
An extension lead
At least one adapter
A small blowy or two-bar heater
A thermos flask of coffee
Water
Bananas
Chocolate
I think we may need to add draught excluder and fingerless gloves to the list.
Over in the States, what is the comparable situation - if it is indeed comparable? Over in Germany, Norway, France, Lithuania, Holland, indeed everywhere where you, dear readers, may be, how do things match up? Is the mentality the same - nobody takes responsibility and f-ups occur at every intervening stage before things prove, as they always miraculously seem to, all right on the night? Here there seems to be a predominant sense that if you insist something is done properly, you are somehow not terribly British. I am not trying to malign amateur music-making itself, which is a fine and life-enhancing tradition. Amateurish organisation, however, stops only just short of sabotage - and is really rather silly.
Thursday, November 18, 2004
Hello to Berlin
Back from a delicious few days hearing and interviewing the Beaux Arts Trio in Berlin. Fascinating city, as ever; every time I go there (this was my 3rd trip in 14 months) there are new buildings to see, cranes in new places, a gleaming new century imposing itself on relics of all the others. Berlin must be the city that best encompasses the whole of 20th-century European history.
Not that I saw much of it this time, because my quarry, the trio - known pleasingly as the BAT - were far too interesting. Pianist Menahem Pressler, who is over 80, is one of my great piano heroes and the person I would most have loved to study with 20 years ago. The 'old' trio's recordings, with Isidore Cohen and Bernard Greenhouse, were among my father's favourites and we used to listen to them all the time when I was about 14, especially the Dvorak 'Dumky' Trio. I think that the sound of Pressler's playing somehow got under my skin at that time through sheer familiarity with this record, and I realise now that it's been my pianistic ideal ever since. And the Dumky was the second half of their Berlin concert.
In place of Cohen and Greenhouse the trio now has Daniel Hope and Antonio Meneses. But the piano sound is just the same - silvery, sparkly, silken joie de vivre, full of soul and humanity, from someone who should be recognised as one of the world's great pianists but, because he has played primarily in a trio for 50 years and taught devotedly in Indiana for half that time, is not sufficiently familiar to the wider public. Just a few notes into the Dvorak, I entered a time warp and found myself back in the house where I grew up, going through it room by room, object by object, and watching Dad enjoying the music... Of course, he died years ago, as did my mother, and I spent most of the trio fighting back serious lump in throat.
Almost as moving, and more astonishing, was the impression I had that Pressler and Hope, despite the 50-year difference in their ages, are somehow cut from the same spiritual cloth. Musically they were a perfect match and during the interviews each in turn seemed to be trying to win at praising the other. They are performing the Faure A major Sonata together in Paris in January and I intend to try to go. Pressler calls Dan and Antonio 'my boys', which is very sweet indeed. I sat next to Pressler at dinner and we got on wonderfully. He is just as he sounds.
Apropos de Faure, Tom and I played that same sonata in a private concert last Sunday and I thought it went pretty well. Or, to put it another way, I didn't f*** up. And Tom was excellent, despite the frustration of trying to play in tune while the piano was out of tune. The audience seemed to love it and they gave us two very nice bottles of champagne.
Not that I saw much of it this time, because my quarry, the trio - known pleasingly as the BAT - were far too interesting. Pianist Menahem Pressler, who is over 80, is one of my great piano heroes and the person I would most have loved to study with 20 years ago. The 'old' trio's recordings, with Isidore Cohen and Bernard Greenhouse, were among my father's favourites and we used to listen to them all the time when I was about 14, especially the Dvorak 'Dumky' Trio. I think that the sound of Pressler's playing somehow got under my skin at that time through sheer familiarity with this record, and I realise now that it's been my pianistic ideal ever since. And the Dumky was the second half of their Berlin concert.
In place of Cohen and Greenhouse the trio now has Daniel Hope and Antonio Meneses. But the piano sound is just the same - silvery, sparkly, silken joie de vivre, full of soul and humanity, from someone who should be recognised as one of the world's great pianists but, because he has played primarily in a trio for 50 years and taught devotedly in Indiana for half that time, is not sufficiently familiar to the wider public. Just a few notes into the Dvorak, I entered a time warp and found myself back in the house where I grew up, going through it room by room, object by object, and watching Dad enjoying the music... Of course, he died years ago, as did my mother, and I spent most of the trio fighting back serious lump in throat.
Almost as moving, and more astonishing, was the impression I had that Pressler and Hope, despite the 50-year difference in their ages, are somehow cut from the same spiritual cloth. Musically they were a perfect match and during the interviews each in turn seemed to be trying to win at praising the other. They are performing the Faure A major Sonata together in Paris in January and I intend to try to go. Pressler calls Dan and Antonio 'my boys', which is very sweet indeed. I sat next to Pressler at dinner and we got on wonderfully. He is just as he sounds.
Apropos de Faure, Tom and I played that same sonata in a private concert last Sunday and I thought it went pretty well. Or, to put it another way, I didn't f*** up. And Tom was excellent, despite the frustration of trying to play in tune while the piano was out of tune. The audience seemed to love it and they gave us two very nice bottles of champagne.
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